“Operation Blue Eden.” Buddy hadn’t said those words out loud in months. The name felt metallic on his tongue, like he’d bitten down on a bullet.
“What’s that?” Dawson asked.
“The last big case I worked on with the FBI.” Buddy kept his focus on the girl.
“It’s a bit of a stretch to go from our vic saying blue to your case name,” Dawson said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t either. But it’s more than just what we named the op.” Buddy glanced between Dawson and Chloe. “Blue was also an internal code word used by the traffickers. It meant it was safe to move the victims.”
“Okay,” Chloe said softly. “But why would our vic use it? Because that doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know.” Buddy ran his fingers through his hair. “It just struck me as an odd choice, and I wanted to mention it to you.”
“Except you wrapped up that case,” Chloe said. “Made seventeen arrests. Shut down a major pipeline.”
“I did.” Buddy nodded. “But we both know this shit is still going on.” His throat tightened. “Anything else? Maybe if I know more, I can tell if there are any other similarities.”
“Some sort of smudge on her wrist. Faded. Blue-gray,” Chloe said. “Could be ink, could be grease. We won’t know until the lab runs it.”
That knocked the wind out of Buddy’s lungs. “Can you send me a picture of that?”
“You know I can’t do that.” Dawson pulled out his cell and held up an image. “Why?”
It was too smudged to make sense of it.
“A couple of the girls we found were working sweatshops in the Bayou. They had stamps on their wrists that indicated where they worked. They were temporary until they were sold—if they were sold. Some were older, and not the kind of girls that got the same high price on the market as younger ones.” He swallowed the bile that bubbled in his throat.
“Any chance you’ve got unofficial copies of those ink stamps?” Chloe asked.
Buddy snorted. “I might be able to get you one, but as you said, I made those arrests. Unless someone reopened that pipeline, which isn’t unheard of, those assholes are either dead or behind bars.”
The nurse approached, holding a small envelope sealed in red tape. “Chief Ridge? Detective Frasier-Bennett? I didn’t want this misplaced.”
Dawson took it. “What is it?”
“Debris from under her fingernails. Small, but I thought you’d want it noted before evidence transfer.”
“Appreciate it,” Chloe said.
The nurse’s gaze flicked to Buddy. “Sorry, sir, but we need to keep the hallway clear for now.”
“Understood,” he said, stepping back.
Dawson nodded at Chloe. “Finish up here. I’ll have Jasper keep watch ‘til shift change.”
When they stepped into the hall, the door closed softly behind them. The corridor smelled like tapioca and tired feet.
For a few beats, no one spoke, and Buddy did his best to categorize what he knew, what was simply jumping to conclusions, and what were ghosts he was trying to outrun.
“Alright,” Dawson said finally. “I’m not saying you can’t think. Just don’t act on those thoughts without Chloe. You’re a civilian, and most likely, this case will be taken out of my hands and handed over to state or even the Feds. Let us run it clean.”
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Buddy said.
“Yeah, you would,” Dawson said. “But thanks for lying.”
Chloe laughed under her breath, low and genuine. “He can’t help it.”
Dawson headed down the hall, muttering something about paperwork and shitty coffee.
